“More than likely. And Frank Lane also seemed a bit contemptuous of the Mexico trip. Or maybe he was just envious.”
“You said Michael Lane’s relationship with the victim, John Beddoes, was strained?”
“Yes,” said Annie. “I suppose it could have been some sort of misguided revenge, an old vendetta. Also, Frank Lane said he thought Beddoes was full of himself. He played it down, said there was no bitterness, but there could be something in it. Lane’s a professional farmer, making a hard living the hard way. Beddoes is an amateur, a hobbyist. That sort of thing. If Michael had something against both of them, then he’d know that stealing the tractor would probably hurt his father, Frank Lane, too, as he’d been given the responsibility of looking after the Beddoes farm. Two birds with one stone. And Michael does have the joyriding incident in his background. Trouble is, we don’t really know Michael Lane, what sort of person he is. His partner thinks he’s wonderful, but she’s biased. Is he the vengeful sort, the type to harbor a grudge? We don’t know. We also need to have a more extensive search of the Lane farm premises, just in case he’s hanging out there for some reason.”
“We’ll schedule that for tomorrow morning,” Banks said. “I’d like to talk to Beddoes and Lane myself. I’m not sure about the vendetta angle, though. These tractors are worth a lot of money, and it takes a great deal of organization, not to mention expense, to steal one. Do you think Michael Lane, or even his father, was capable of organizing such a theft?”
“No,” said Annie. “I shouldn’t imagine they were. I certainly don’t think Michael Lane could have stolen it by himself, but he could have been involved with whoever did do it. As I said, Beddoes left the key in the garage. Michael Lane might have known about that, too. He could also have been the one who gave the tip-off about the Beddoeses’ Mexico trip, for example.” Annie became silent, as if she were realizing something for the first time.
Banks noticed the hesitation. “What is it, Annie?”
“Probably nothing, really.” Damn it, Annie thought, she hated this. Talking to Alex Preston had affected her. Like most of the Eastvale police, Annie had written off the East Side Estate, mainly because the only times she had ever been there were to the scenes of domestics, drug deals turned nasty, fights, stabbings, even murders. On such experiences were a copper’s judgments based. But Alex Preston not only kept a clean house and loved her young son, she had put her mistakes behind her—mistakes that could have set many a soul well on the way to more of the same—and pulled herself up by the bootstraps. She had a positive, optimistic outlook that Annie admired, and she had dreams. Perhaps Annie also envied Alex a bit, she was willing to admit. Alex seemed to have got herself together and found a good man. Annie had no one to look after her and make her happy. She didn’t have many dreams left, either.
It was rare that Annie felt sentimental about people she didn’t really know, and maybe it was a sign that she was leaving behind some of the depression and cynicism that seemed to have invaded her mind since the shooting. That was a good thing; she hadn’t liked the person she was becoming. Loneliness was turning her into a moody and sharp-tongued bitch. If she got much worse, she wouldn’t be able to find anyone willing to put up with her, let alone love and cherish her. She just hoped that she didn’t get so soft she couldn’t see the hard truth when it was staring her in the face. Any good copper needs at least an ounce or two of skepticism, even cynicism. But Annie also realized that she had not completely lost her copper’s mistrust of the world, that some of what she had learned from Alex Preston had made her more suspicious of Michael Lane.
“Lane’s girlfriend, Alex Preston, works part-time at that travel agent’s in the Swainsdale Centre,” she said. “GoThereNow.”
“The same one Beddoes used to book the trip?”
“Dunno.” Annie glanced at Doug Wilson. “We haven’t had a chance to check it out yet. We’ve been splodging around in the mud most of the day.”
This drew a titter from the audience. Banks glanced at his watch. “First thing tomorrow. Then we can scrounge up a few bodies and give the Lane farm a thorough once-over, just to make sure Michael Lane isn’t there. That would be embarrassing.” He paused. “Do you think this Preston woman could be involved?”
“She’s worried sick,” said Annie. “She thinks something’s happened to Lane.”
“And you?”
“I’m taking her seriously.”
“Is anyone actually looking? I mean, he’s not officially listed as missing yet, is he?”
“No, sir,” said Doug Wilson. “But DI Cabbot and I got a recent picture and we’ve circulated it within the area. We’ve also been in touch with the airlines and railway stations, and we’ve asked to be informed of any activity on his mobile phone, debit or credit card. Nothing yet, not since last Friday.”
“Makes sense if he’s being careful.” Then Banks turned back to Annie. “And Morgan Spencer?”
“He wasn’t in when we called.”
“Do you think there’s a connection with the blood found in the hangar?” Banks asked. “It does seem a bit of a coincidence. Do you think the victim could be Lane? Or Spencer?”
“No. I . . . I mean . . . I don’t know. Maybe. I was just making a point,” Annie said. “I’m taking Alex Preston seriously. But now you come to mention it, an expensive tractor is stolen while the owner’s away in Mexico, a neighbor’s son with a criminal record goes walkabout, he’s living with a woman who works at a travel agent’s and his mate owns a removal van. It all seems a bit fishy to me. And someone texted Michael on Sunday morning, just before he went out. It could have been Spencer. It’s not as if we get such a collection of coincidences every day, is it?”
“Let’s see if we can find out anything about Morgan Spencer’s removal van and that text he sent,” said Banks. “And we’d also better look into who owns the aerodrome property. Does Morgan Spencer have a record?”
“No,” said Annie. “He’s clean as far as we’re concerned.”
Banks glanced toward Winsome. “Did you follow up on what Gilchrist told you about the lorries, get anything more, any confirmation?”
“Not yet, sir. We’ve still got officers out asking questions in the general area. Maybe someone else noticed these lorries, too. Though Mr. Gilchrist did say it was only three or four times in the past year or so.”
“If our thieves were using the hangar as part of a route for getting stolen farm equipment out of the country, or even across it, they would probably only have needed it for larger items, like tractors and combines. As far as I know, they’d slaughter any stolen livestock locally and dispose of it here through illegal channels. Dodgy butchers. Abattoirs that don’t ask too many questions. Quickly. Rustlers aren’t in the business of grazing stolen sheep and cattle. And the airfield and hangar were ideal for large transfers. After all, the place was padlocked and signposted private. It looked official, even though it was neglected. People would most likely assume that whoever ran the lorries in and out were the owners, using it for legitimate business, or at least had official permission to be there. We could be onto something here.”
“It’s possible.”
“Have another word with this Terry Gilchrist, Winsome. Could he be involved? After all, he is ex-army, and he did find the bloodstains.”
“His dog did,” Winsome said. “I don’t really see why he’d follow it under a chain-link fence in his condition, with the weather the way it was, and then phone us if he was responsible for it in the first place. Do you, sir?”
“Perhaps not, when you put it like that, but we have to consider the possibility.”
“Without Gilchrist and his dog, the crime scene could have gone unobserved for days, or weeks.”
“True,” Banks agreed. “Unless one of the lorry drivers noticed.”